


The Castle in the Air.

by bluegerl



Category: Actor RPF, Sean Bean/Viggo Mortensen - Fandom
Genre: Castles in the Air., M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegerl/pseuds/bluegerl





	The Castle in the Air.

Title The Castle in the Air.   
Author: bluegerl /beansgerl  
Category: RPS. characters Sean Bean and Viggo Mortensen  
Chapters 3 completed. Word count 10,325.  
Rating: NC17 Warnings - slightly hurt/comfort - it is a story after all.

Disclaimer: The author does not know these people, and this has never happened, and hope no-one will be offended.

Summary: A week that will not forgotten by Sean or Viggo - Sean finds a Castle and Viggo escapes a dungeon 

 

WEDNESDAY

The Castle stood high, carrying the sky on its towers. High above the road which went from here to there, to be found by serendipity and seldom disturbed by strange invaders.

It was a faery castle, seen perhaps in a formal Booke of Houres. Knights should ride, and had ridden forth on prancing caparisoned steeds. The Castle had towers, many roofed in coloured ceramic tiles shining gold and amber, green and russet. A pennant flew proud, bearing a shield azure, quartered, mont trois gueles or, with the fleurs de lys of France. 

Sir Geoffroy, Seigneur de St Aubin, once a cleric, now a warrior by the command of the King stood at the foot of the hill. His rented BMW purred softly behind him as he mentally tried to find (fight?) his way up that fearsome, almost perpendicular cliff - the only hand-holds the bushes and small brittle trees insecurely reaching to the western sun from cracks and crevices in the granite. 

Sean, not Sir Geoffroy, who should have remained in La Blancheporte with the rest of the circus which was taking over this small relatively unknown corner of France, stood a while longer. He looked around at the honest little village with its houses leaning their backs to the base of the Castle hill. He switched off the engine of the car, locked it, and strolled to a cafe with tables and chairs outside. He could have a smoke, unwind, watch the world go by; and gaze his fill on this exquisite piece of ancient stone-built jewellery, perching between his dusty feet and the azure sky of mid-May, as if it had indeed fallen there from an illuminated scroll from the Middle Ages. 

He was served his coffee by a dark, rosy-hued giant, jeans clutching desperately for security under the shelter of a vast belly, plaid sleeves rolled up on the arms of a blacksmith. A huge hand gently cradled the tiny cup and saucer to the table.

"Bonjour, M'sieu., vous étes un Anglais?" He uttered round his half-cigarette which had found its way somehow from behind a hair-sprouting ear to a mobile full-lipped mouth.

"Er yes ... I'm English. I'm not very good with French, but Bonjour Monsieur."

"Aha - il essaye la langue. Is it that you..." waving an arm that also resembled a good-sized ham, at the Castle " to a visit for to see our Chateau - it not grrrande M'sieu?" He rolled his rrrrrrrs like thunder in the distance… "Grrrrrrrande.."

"Ah yes, Oui, it is indeed grand, and beautiful."

"Mais oui…" (it sounded like 'baywee'), adding "mais bien reparè - maked you say to be well again?" 

‘’Oh, it’s been restored. Is it very old? It looks from the time of… Henry IV or Louis XI ? "

"Ah… l'age,… il a ...." and reeled of a string of sounds of unbelievable length and fluidity which Sean/Geoffroy simply could not decipher, but found he could nod at, wisely agreeing.

"Yes, very old. It is open for visitors today?"

The 'baywee' came again, " Tous les jours, sauf le lundi."

"At what hour? I mean, what times can I go, and where is the road?" Sean pointed at his chest, his watch, the castle and then made the motions of driving a car. ‘’Is there a carpark up there ... pour la voiture?" 

The hefty arm leant on the table which almost crumpled under the assault, a vast hand produced a football-hung wildly-coloured biro, and scrawled something on the back of a menu. Sean/Geoffroy had no idea which way was north or south, but the arm raised as if flailing a mace, and pointed the way Sean's car was facing.

"Par la - à gauche, et puis toute droit, et tourrrrnez à gauche. La route is... how is it... most petite, et etroite." His banana fingers closed together just touching.

Geoffroy/Sean gathered that the road was small and narrow, and 'à gauche'. This 'à gauche' didn't mean awkward or naif, but was either right or left ... but which? He waved his slim brown arm - his left one, and said "A gauche?" He laughed to hide the desire to yelp as his back was pummelled while his left arm raised and twirled like a sword " Ah… A GAUCHE!"

Extricating himself with much smiling and 'mercy mercy's', Sean dodged across the road. He drove a short way behind one very small prehistoric tractor, rounded a parked Renault with two pigs' faces peering from the back window, and set off 'à gauche'. 

The BMW felt like a lorry as he slowly wound up the twisting lane. Geoffroy/Sean imagined the terrifying attempt at the assault in leather jerkin or corselet of steel; his helmet would probably keep falling over his sweaty forehead in the really warm sun - not in the hot late summer though; wars often were stopped to allow the harvest in. Oh hell, the effort of running, dodging, ducking, hanging on to your sword to stop it tripping you up, fearing all the time the nearly vertical wall that would shower stones, arrows, oil, dead animals, or even dead men as missiles against the invaders.  
Geoffroy/Sean mused, seeing but not seeing the masses of flowers pressing, almost touching the silver car's side. Sean thought when he came back here, he'd have to rent a little car. At the only turn, to his left, he grinned, and waved his arm from the window "A GAUCHE!" A battle cry rang out, followed by his laughter. 

 

There were two moats, the outer one wide, the inner steep and deep. There were thick wooden planks from the chained posts across to the chained posts, wide enough for two horses abreast? Geoffroy/Sean giggled, he was even thinking like a knight of old, or a Sharpe, or Aske. They had all imparted military knowledge and his absorbant mind had siphoned it in, storing it away somewhere. 'Nosey' might like this place, ‘cept that it’s French!

There was a door, tall, ox-blood red, which carried a long heavy knocker in iron, surely hand-forged? Beside it a notice commanded "Knock three times and wait" in four languages. So Sir Geoffroy de St. Aubin raised his hand 'Childe Roland to the dark tower came... ' and raised the knocker. 'CRASH.' and waited. 'CRASH,' again waited. 'CRASH' for the third time. Silence. 

Footsteps scuffed, keys jangled, and bolts scrapingly withdrew. The door swung open to reveal a child, a boy of about seven. Dark crisp curls, brown-honey eyes and a smile that tore Geoffroy's heart, small lips upturning ... an elf, a waif … a child like this would indeed live in a magic castle. 

"Bonjour M'sieu, entrez s'il vous plait?" he said, musically. 

Geoffroy/Sean followed. Another tower with the portcullis raised high, the ropes and pulleys secured, waiting. Sean could see the grease on the rope-wound windlass. They burst forth into a Garden of Eden enclosing gravelled narrow paths, low trimmed box-hedges sheltering flowers and herbs Sir Geoffroy would have recognised, but Sean did not. Some tall, many short, bushy, slim - he could scent lemon somewhere? The little boy stopped and pointed at a kiosk. A stall leaning against the warm stone of another wing crowned high with a balcony that would delight and compliment a Juliet, as she gazed at her Romeo serenading her beneath a moon, so bright... He became aware that the small boy was watching him somewhat anxiously. Geoffroy/Sean smiled his slow lopsided smile, held his hand out, bowed and said,

"I'm Geoffroy de St. Aubin, young sire, and who might you be?"

A low musical, educated voice behind him said,

"Speak, Dominic, tell the gentleman you are the Squire's knave!" Geoffroy half-turned, and saw only a man with a rake and a sack in his hand behind a wheelbarrow, wearing thick brown workman's corduroys, a pleated smock, and a kerchief in pale blue round his brown strong neck. 

"Je suis Dominic Charles Sauretan, I make the aide to mon Seigneur, Robert, le Duc du Bellay, here before you." 

Geoffroy/Sean choked a little, swallowed, then breathing somehow a little too fast, bowed slightly to Dominic, turned, and gave a full Court Bow to the tall slim aristocratic figure of the Duc du Bellay. He wished like hell he could produce some elegant french phrase to express his pleasure. 

The Duc du Bellay threw back his head and guffawed, no other word for it - he guffawed - braying like a donkey. Geoffroy's hand went for his sword - Sean thought, Bloody hell, wot the bloody... The Duc du Bellay pulled off his kerchief, wiped his eyes, then his right not à gauche! hand, which he then proffered to the blushing blond man before him, and said, 

"Aww, mind you not, this is just a game Dominic and I play - I'm Viggo Mortensen, American, as you can tell, and just here to study Herbal Gardens of the Middle Ages," He continued, giving Sean a chance to stop feeling so idiotic,

"Dominic is seven and dreams of Chivalry. He is a superb little swordsman already, in the Junior team of the Departement." The workmarked hand ruffled the dark curls of the small Squire's head, whose eyes gazed up in adoration. 

"He will tell visitors I am Robert, le Duc du Bellay, but it's a bit ageing, as he's been dead for four or five hundred years!" The laugh rang out again. Viggo's wierd name, certainly nowhere French? throat throbbed like a thrush's in full song. Brown, strong, healthy with a slight sweat sheen in the hollow just above the... Geoffroy/Sean gulped.

"Phew… Thank god, an English voice… well English-speaking." A grin of sheer relief lit his face. He added "I'm Sean, I'm an English actor, but I do like to feel in tune with a place, so may I present myself, Milord… At this moment I am Sir Geoffroy de St. Aubin, second son of the Comte du Sensay, and at present in the service of His Most Royal Majesty, the King of France..." 

A bell rang from the kiosk; a guided tour was about to collect, count, and direct. Geoffroy/Sean hesitated. ‘’My sincere apologies, I fear my presence is required elsewhere," He bowed again to the Duke, who solemnly returned the gesture, nodded a smile at Dominic, and went to join the group. 

The eleven people were an assorted mix of English, German, two Swiss and a couple of Japanese, the elderly couple intently studying their guide books. Sean dashed to the kiosk, grabbed a guide-book with pictures in, dropped some Euros in the earthenware pot, and regained the party. They reached the enormous six-inch-thick, bolt-studded door, that swung open silently at the gentle push of a small hand belonging to the petite student-guide. "Je m'appelle Jonquille." Sean thought, that's a daffodil, a blooming daffodil - she's a... and followed, smiling, the party. A daffodil...Oh, shut UP, Wordsworth!

The Chateau, it appeared, wasn't a 'Castle' in that sense, it was more a grand family home. The family of the people who still lived there had rescued a crumbling broken ruin, rebuilt it over many years with a seemingly bottomless fortune. It had been most precisely restored from the original, beam by beam, stone by stone, handmade nail by nail, from the plans found, showing the chateau as it had been before The Revolution. Then it had been sacked. Sean, discovering how badly it had been destroyed, began to understand the true meaning of the word 'sacked'… so little had been left, only some stones too big to tumble over the cliff to the village below, the rest had gone. 

The morning passed; they filed from the rooms, so comfortably furnished in keeping with the period, but fitting this century also. They were left to wander freely in the garden, to lean over the western wall, to gaze below... or afar at the hazy horizon stretching way, way off. Geoffroy's mind thought, a vast country, this - it'd take days, weeks even, to cross this country on horseback...

He was standing with his guide-book in one hand, his very small French/English dictionary in the other, leafing through, searching. He shook his head.

"Having trouble then? That little book you have there ain't much good in France you'll find out, there's too many meanings to one word..." the soft voice of the Duc du Bellay curled round Sean's ears and neck as sweetly as a lover's kiss. He started,

"Oh… Eh... er. Yes... Hello Duke, finished digging then?" The gap-toothed grin emerged, the head skewed to one side, 

"What are you looking for?"

Sean shook his head, "It’s this word 'corbeau'… in my book it says 'crow' and there's plenty here, but I don't think that's what it really means.’’

The Duc leaned in, his cheek-bone brushing Sean's shoulder as he turned,

"Ah, les corbeaux, plural; and one is a 'corbeille'. You have ravens, crows, misers, priests, arches, and the ends of beams. There are also 'moles' as in spies, - sleepers, informers. They are also 'corbeaux', so take your pick ..." he giggled. "Well, it isn't the crowbirds, and we haven't any spies - so how about miserly priests? On arches, or ends of beams?" 

His hand rested on Geoffroy's shoulder as he turned him back towards the high windows sheltering under a precise pattern of gold, rust, green shining ceramic tiles.

"That, there… see? That end beam sticking out from under the tiles, see it? The light's not good now... Hey, Dominic, fetch the jumelles, veet veet!" and as the child scampered off to a shed under the wisteria in the corner, the Duke continued,

"There's a face up there - the artisans had a way of getting back at their bad bosses, and these were poor chaps who worked here in the far past. They didn't have 'Elth and Safety' or unions, and men died, many... but as a way of getting back, they carved the face of this man - his name was Gaultier, Michel Gaultier, they carved his face - warts, squinty eyes and all, on that beam… there…" the hand pointed, the shoulder leaning, close, barely touching Geoffroy/Sean as he looked up. 

Dominic ran up, gave the binoculars to the Duke, who said "There's faces on 'em all, all along there..." 

Sean gasped. Here - almost alive. A face so mean, so petty, so... a thief's face, the tiny close-set eyes, the tight-crushed miserly mouth. It was indeed an honest portrayal of a dishonest man whom Sean did not like… a bad guy, that one. He moved the glasses along. More faces scowled, primly stared, shone - an Angel and a Cherub faced the sun at evening. Sean counted, fifteen in all. His arms tired, and he turned, giving the binoculars back to Dominic with thanks, "Mercy bowcoo."

The bell rang again tolls the knell of parting... but it was only lunchtime. ViggoDuke hesitated, then said,

"Lunchtime... are you having?" 

Sean realised his small breakfast had long gone, and his stomach was on the point of giving a very loud disagreeable grumble.  
"Oh aye, I'm starving... is there anywhere?’’ 

The Duke grinned,   
"There is and I'm going. You coming?" and without more questions, he walked towards the Portcullis Tower. Sean followed - he was hungry. He was starving, he wanted food - for his body, for his other wants.... Brown corduroy trousers moulded the backside of the Duc du Bellay as he bent to pluck a broken branch from the neat box edging.

"You gotta car - good. We usually walk, but it's a drag back."

"Hop in Dominic," Sean wondered about his ability to drive back down that tiny lane, but he turned the wheel,

"Hey, not that way, that's One Way. Go here, this is the exit," and Sean found himself driving comfortably on a normal road curving downhill to the village.

"There it is - go in there and round the back, there's a good shady park there." 

It was shaded, and so was the eating area, green shadowed but open, umbrellas and tall trees. Tables with orange and pink cloths, wicker cushioned chairs, and silence except for the sounds of birds. A long-legged blonde took their order, smiled at Sean, giggled saucily at Viggo and waved her rear a little as she disappeared towards the darkness of the stone-built hotel's kitchens.

"She’s from Leeds is Carol, she came here seventeen years ago, on student exchange, and never went back." He grinned, cocked his head. "She's married to a good friend of mine - but he's very straight now!" 

They ate well, and slowly, talked of almost everything it seemed. Dominic adding his opinion, chatting in a most grown-up way, Sean thought, impressed, and he ate his salad, and his green beans and baby onions for starters, polished off the rich stew-thing, AND then had cheese, followed by an ice cream! Sean had something called 'Floating Island' not really his thing, a bit wet-custardy with fluff on, but it was good ‘eggy-tasty‘. 

The Duke had chocolate mousse, which he ate slowly, small curling mouthfuls, his tongue caressing the spoon until Sean thought he'd be up and assaulting him there - now! The spoon was 'raped'? The dish lifted, and Sean's pants now became distinctly uncomfortable because that tongue licked every last colouring from the bowl. Sean's mind drooled.... 

Coffee arrived. It was nearly two-thirty, and Sean had to be back at the unit - it was evening 'shoots' and he had to be 'bearded up', and dressed in his Court costume by five-ish. He was so reluctant to leave, but somewhere in the chatting, his role in the film had come up. Dominic had expressed a most lively interest in his sword and dagger, "did he fight - really - really truly USE it properly?’’ all this in rapid french which Viggo translated, laughing, tousling Dominic's head.

"He's sword potty this one, knows 'em all, ancient to modern; they won't let him use the straight, or the sabre yet, as they're too heavy, but he's brilliant with the foil and light epèe..." Sean did not want anything to end, so he said, impulsively,

"Well, come along and watch - I'll leave a note at the gate. I’ll tell them to ring me and I'll make sure you're collected. If I'm not on set, I'll show you round… and yes, Dominic, you can play with my sword. It’s heavy, long, and sharp, so you'll have to be careful!" He glanced at Viggo " Will you come?" his voice almost pleading, he felt, so he added firmly, " It'd be no bother to anyone." 

It was arranged for the weekend, after school on Saturday. So Sean left Viggo and Dominic in the carpark, and drove back rather too fast, as Maureen was a stickler for her 'bearding'. He hadn't to be sweating, the gum peeled off if used on a damp skin. He made it - just, but was requested three times that evening to concentrate a bit… ‘’d'you have too good a lunch or what?’’

The end of his day was in the early hours of the next, but he fell into his bed at the hotel and was immediately asleep, to dream of a long, licky tongue… 

 

THURSDAY AND FRIDAY

Sean/Geoffroy had been busy, several long 'shoots' and a lot of sword rehearsals and practice, but he felt disembodied. Every part of him was waiting for Saturday...Did kids go to school on Saturdays? Was there a bus on Saturday afternoon to bring them? There had been another thought, a nasty cold fear growing in Sean's belly, growing bigger and darker each hour, each day; would Viggo bring his wife, Dominic's mother? Oh,Shit! Oh, Hell and dammit! He forced himself to be sensible; after all, he'd been married himself. Not that he'd played around, but mebbe Viggo....? The name was Danish; "Born there." He'd said, but hadn't offered anything more... maybe he was divorced? Or separated, anyway, uninvolved? Sean did have some scruples, much as he was an active sexy man, he did some scruples!

SATURDAY.

He'd found out that in France schools did have to work Saturday mornings, but they had the Wednesday off instead, and so that was why Dominic was at the Château. No school, and maybe Mum was working, and Dad had had to be keeper?

Saturday was hectic. Six re-shoots since early. Early! Goddam six a.m. which meant a four-thirty call. He felt sore and gritty round the eyes, and slightly unsettled in his stomach - too many black coffees while he stood around, waiting, wanting to scratch his 'tackle' which was confined in a pair of blue tickly woollen tights. He hadn't put himself comfortable before they'd added the thick padded overtrews with fake codpiece. They were almost sewn in place: no zips, velcro or buttons must be visible.

The morning passed - several rehearsals for an 'impulsive' attack on Jean-Luc le Comte Reyel - slimy bastard. Now he was waiting for the return of the King's hunting party, sitting in the tent at the wobbly trestle table, perched on a small round stool. His padded pants had velvet striped insets, which went shiny if he sat down comfortably in a proper chair, so he was propped with his poor arse carefully placed on a seat the size of a very small side-plate. So much for the glamour of acting. Even taking a leak was a half-hour exercise in de-layering his clothes. Ellen and Barbie giggled this morning as they handed him his tights. “Done your weewees like a good boy?" He'd sort Ellen out one day, good and proper!

"Bloody hell - me mobile - where the hell is it?" His hands patted, felt, squeezed amongst the padding. "Oh hell - stop ringing, you bloody thing. I shouldn't have it on me!" It stopped. Mobile telephones were banned totally on set, as too many atmospheres were ruined when giggles erupted as the sound of "We all live in a yellow..." or "Mack the Knife" blithely burbled.

He picked up his sword, a piece of pure artistry, beautifully balanced with a good hilt and guard, delicately damascened in gold on the silver metal. He dropped it back on his cloak, fur-lined, too hot and heavy for a short Court cloak. The sword clunked. His mobile, Thank God, me bloody little mobile... he was reaching for it when the doorway of the tent darkened. Sean looked up, expecting to see the Runner and saw Dominic, his eyes huge, his mouth open so his breath could rush in and escape easily. His eyes were fixed on the long silver wand Sean had just put on the sable darkness of his cloak. Dominic pulled his hand free of the one he was attached to, floated forward and stood, waiting... looked up at Sean/Geoffroy, gave a smile, and bowed gracefully, then returned his gaze to the sword. 

Geoffroy/Sean smiled, bowed in return, and dragged his own gaze, dreading, to the doorway. There was the Duc du Bellay, in a red t-shirt, pale blue denims, the kerchief now green, and a smile that was cautious ... hopeful ... anxious? Sean's eyes searched - was there? Was he with … He smiled, his relief shining, glowing. No Duchess du Bellay. Le duc was alone apart from his son, who was lost, completely engrossed in the beauty of the Court sword of Sir Geoffroy de St Aubin.

Duke Viggo's smile settled to one of serenity, wide, strong, his slightly gappy side teeth allowing just a tiny glimpse of that long tongue good for licking chocolate mousse.... Sean's stomach twitched, or lurched - it did 'something' as Sean remembered the spoon, Oh, God, Sean... Say something - DO something - you're standing here like a bloody blushing maiden!

"Hi..." it came out as a squawk. “Hi, you made it - me mobile rang; I suppose it was the Gate and I was looking for it and it must have been and I couldn't...." He realised he was gabbling slow DOWN you idiot....

Duke Viggo just stood - stood and smiled, his head just a little to one side, his grey eyes holding on to Sean's blushing face. He smiled and stood, and smiled. Sean waved vaguely, feebly, at the two Director's chairs by the table, his own perch having fallen unnoticed when he'd stood - when HAD he stood? Duke Viggo wandered towards the trestle, stood beside Dominic, and said, 

"Hello, Geoffroy de St Aubin - I like your knickers!"

Le Duc cackled. A bellow of laughter made Dominic look up at these two grown-ups behaving like two boys in the playground when they'd just said a rude word like 'merde'.

Sean pirouetted, then curtseyed, holding his 'knickers' like a dress - and felt very happy, released from the tensions he'd screwed himself into all morning. Here was Duke Viggo, in tee and jeans and no Duchess.

Sean had to show Dominic how he used his sword, was given a nod of approval at his 'balance'. Apparently he used his hands correctly counterbalancing the force and action of the strokes. There were explanations, exhibitions, discussions, dissections.... After a couple of cigarettes, they had the final inspection and with Dominic's reluctant leaving of the beautiful slimness, they went outside to investigate. 

Sean used his mobile to find out when he was wanted again - another hour! Fine, there would be time to show these two, have tea maybe… or organise some food - anything to keep them longer, until he had finished, until he could take off this bloody costume and be a man in tee and jeans too.

They saw a couple of the sets, lots of wood backing, but Dominic found that the stone arches were real stone around the heavy doors. Sean caught sight of Maureen - he waved, and tapped his beard. It was only a short carved one, and it was still stuck in place. She laughed, and seeing Dominic, came over and asked if he'd like to see the Makeup Room where Sean had his beard stuck on - with REAL glue! And the place where they kept all the coloured clothes, AND the armour... Motherly Maureen promising to bring Dominic back to whereever she could find Sean and Viggo when Dominic had had enough.

Sean suddenly felt awkward. He still wore this bulky bejewelled costume - it was him on set. He didn't mind it then, as he was St Aubin, but now, faced with the sinewy relaxed figure in comfortable clothes, he didn't feel either 'here or there.' He wasn't Sean, and he wasn't Geoffroy. 

Viggo sensing the dilemma, took his hand - ostensibly to admire the lace cuffs, "Hmm, real Holland, although these days it's machine made, but still the authentic knots and designs..." while he stroked the back and the fingers of that hand which lay quivering and sweating between the two work-hardened palms of Duke Viggo.

They stood a long time, Viggo just plucking gently at the jewels sewn on to the dark green taffeta sleeves. 

"You'd be worth a fortune if these were real!" 

Sean grinned. "They are, real Zircons, emerald tinted, but real enough". He sniggered "D'you like me now you know I'm rich?"

His other hand was sweating too. He wiped it on the wool of his tights, because it wanted so much to card Viggo Duke's hair, newly washed, soft, it flopped over his face when he looked down.... Sean's hand was moving to reach up to touch a carved cheekbone when a voice called: 

"On the set, Sean, five minutes!" 

"Soddendammit!" Viggo let his hand drop. "Must go and be Geoffroy de St - oh hell. Where's me lines - not many, thank God, I've been a dream all day..."

He picked up his sword, scabbard and cloak. Duke Viggo took the scabbard and buckled it in place, fingers swift, kneeling to reach the side strap. He looked up at Sean/Geoffroy - 

"We won't go - Dominic wants you to come home for the evening after. Can you? It's not far, only 13 kms to Courcy - Courcy-en-bois?" He stood. "You needn't stay late - do you have to work tomorrow? Oh, lets's sort it out later?"

Sean had to trot off, slinging his cloak on and then a wave back as he ducked behind the cameras. His lines came perfectly, his moves were superb, smooth …the 'impulsive' actions unforced and easy. His voice rang with outrage and anger. That was a 'take' - finished! Take off this bloody itchy stuff, have a long pee and get comfortable again. He'd be all bent up - he giggled and wondered if pee came out in a sideways curve? 

Back towards the tent he found Dominic, Maureen, three stuntmen and two horses. The humans were practicing 'stick-n-strokes' and teaching Dominic about the one- two - three - then down - four - then up - five - twist and clench - poste - and riposte... The practised known movements to ensure that every cinematic swordsman made the right moves, then the chances of accidental injury would be very slight.

Dominic's eyes were alight, his cheeks flushed and shiny - his hair dampening just a little at his small nape. Sean wanted so much to bury his face in that little neck - he'd love a lad, at one time he'd dreamt of having a football team....

Lights were coming on and going out; it was nearing closing up time, the gates to be locked and both the people in front of, and behind the cameras would be free to become themselves, to talk, chat, drink beer, sleep, bathe, enjoy their freedom and comradeship. Sean ripped out of his costume, but laid it carefully on the stand - 'No shiny velvet PLEASE!' He showered fast but thoroughly, and was delighted to find his bent bit actually was reasonably straight if he pulled it a bit ... Testing… testing… testing... sniggering in a robotic voice "one- two- three,- now come and play with me!" He felt happy.

Twenty minutes later the three of them were in the BMW curving out of the cage-like gates. "They're like prison gates," Viggo grunted.

Prison? Prison gates? Sean registered,

Courcy was upon them in no time. A thin straggle of an old French village, one road that turned left, but Viggo indicated straight on - up a grassy drove.

"The car'll be fine - it’s hardcore underneath."

The drove ended by three houses. "That one, that's a gite, not used a lot - and that over there is Gilbert's - he's the Forester, him and his wife Yvette are long past retirement, but no-one's there to take it on..." Sean parked, beside a floppy hedge. "Gilbert uses a small cobby horse to haul the logs, it’s a clever beast, and it’s kind to the forest, not like tractors."

Sean and Viggo climbed out, Sean lifting Dominic nearly asleep, and Viggo turned, 

"This is our house - this one" and opened a small gate to a long green path "There's apple trees, plum trees, pear trees, cherry trees, even a big fig tree, but I don't know if it'll ripen the figs" He waved his hand at the low arch, which Sean ducked under, Dominic by now fast asleep, slack and warm. Viggo opened a large dark door, smiled, and said,

"Welcome to Little Orchard, le Petit Verger Bienvenue, my friend, Well come!" Sean stepped over the scattering of shoes and slippers beside the doorway and stopped. Viggo looked at him and smiled proudly. "Come on - this is our home - nice isn't it?"

Sean's mind blotted out the day - he was here - IN THEN - he WAS Sir Geoffroy de St Aubin - he knew this room; he had come home. That huge beam up there - three or four feet wide and as deep. A vast brick fireplace for sitting in, with cauldron, hook and spit, held half a tree glittering and crackling in the grey ash. Two walls of shelves, plates and dishes on a huge dresser. A lute hanging there, and a long three-inch-thick scrubbed oak table ten feet long if it’s an inch, Sean thought, but it doesn't look big in this room. A long low window over the stone sink gave light, an eastern sun for breakfast at that table?

Viggo patted his back and carefully took Dominic, laying him down on the sofa in front of the fire, tucking a rug round him. He went to the wall phone, dialled, spoke and laughed gently, nodding, agreed, and smiling turned to Sean,

"Marie-Magdalen will be up for Dominic shortly, she's back from the hospital - been on late afternoon shift."

"Who's she? With Dominic - isn't he ...your son? I thought..." Viggo looked wistful. 

"No, my only son is all grown - back in the States. Dominic is Marie-Magdalen's, he's got a sister Helene, who's twelve. Their father Alain was killed in Afghanistan three years ago. He misses him so badly - Alain was his hero. He was the hero of the whole vllage, a good man - a very good man..." Viggo's voice drifted, "Poor Dominic, he's very brave about it, he wants, needs so much to have a 'Dad'... a lovely kid... a lovely, lonely kid..." His hip caught the edge of the table as he made to retreat from his emotions.

"I'll make some tea… coffee? Got some food in the fridge, I hoped you could come - can you…” His hand clinked the spout of the huge grey kettle on the tap. "Can you stay?" He watched the water run into the kettle. 

Big enough to fill a bath - that Sean thought, yes, bet he's got a tin bath - I'd enjoy a tin-bath bath with him...,. "Err, yes, of course, yes… that sofa looks very nice and soft..." Viggo clinked the kettle again, heaved it on to the ancient gas cooker in the corner.

A whistle at the door, Marie-Magdalen crept in, a blanket in her arms.  
"Aah Veegooh, mon cher, tu est si gentil, si genereux..." She blew Viggo a kiss, then leant over the sleeping child. At the door she smiled. "Bon soir, mes chers, bonne nuit aussi et, " She giggled and blew another kiss. "Bon matin encore - a bientot, merci, Veegoh, et Vive L'Amour..." and laughing quietly, she slipped out of the door into the darkening evening.

"Well, this place may seem 'uncivilised' but it does have all the home comforts you need, even a flushing indoor lavatory - no 'Gardez l'eau!!' or slopping out here in the mornings." 

Sean thought - there it is again - 'slopping out.' Is he trying to tell me something on the q.t? Sean watched as he competently fetched mugs, sugar, milk - the refrigerator was the other side of the huge room, in a larder or somewhere. Sean stared as he walked over the stone flags; he glides, he decided, almost like a dancer... Yes, oh, yes, dance - oh - to dance with him, slow, close, smooooth…

"I said, do you take sugar?" Viggo's voice came from a long way away. 

"Oh - oh, no thanks, makes me fat, if I'm not careful - it’s sweeteners in coffee too - but I'm getting to like it without..." He was aware that he was gabbling again.

"Hey - les' siddown. Dunno about you, but I've had a long hard day - I 'spec you have too, but I've tomorrow and Monday off. The French don't usually work on a Monday, and the Castle is closed, but 'tis all set for torrow..." He took teapot, mugs and milk to the little round table beside the sofa, dropped onto the cushions, and patted the seat beside him.   
"Come on, I won't eat you - yet," he giggled softly "Not just yet - les' just sit a bit, eat a bit, then... kiss a bit?" His head cocked sideways, grey eyes glinting and twinkling.

Sean's legs went - he stumbled, fell, sitting beside this forward, sexy, irresistable American - correction - Danish American, the Duc du Bellay. Sean raised his arms above his head, stretched enjoyably, and said, 

"Let's do it all, Duke Viggo, let's do it all - all night - all day... all...." he giggled. "Marie-Magdalen said 'Good night and Good morning - is that giving permission?" His arm A gauche, he remembered, fell down and somehow found its hand resting on Duke Viggo's neck, just beneath Duke Viggo's hair, then down inside the neck of Duke Viggo's Tee... A grunt and a squiggle and he was screwed up into Duke Viggo, his shoulder under the Duke's armpit, his face huffing into Duke's neck, reaching up, his face shifted, reached up - Duke Viggo's lips were open but soft, soft, stroking, sliding gently, tenderly, his chocolate mousse-licking tongue following, touching, seeking, entering...

Goodnight! thought Sean.Oh, Bloody GOOD night this'll be ... oh, good... good....

His lips, hot, bruised, and rather tender, were glad that the tea had gone nearly cold. He needed something to lubricate his throat as his breathing had been through his wide open mouth for the last ten, or fifteen minutes - was it an hour? He shivered a little - the fire was warm, but he missed his clothes... where were his clothes? Oh there, in a heap on the Grandfather Chair. He was apparently naked - sweatily, smellily naked, with a delighfully exhausted straight bit flopping against his thigh.

Viggo opened one eye, then two, and reached for a mug, took a mouthful, grimaced, but swallowed.

"Heh - you look like Sir Geoffroy should look when he's just been devoured by a Duke - do you feel honoured?” He grinned hugely, swallowed more cold tea. "I should really have a servant - he could hand us tea, food, lube ... washcloths... all sorts of things... Have you got a servant, Sean?" There was a note of earnestness - as if he wanted to know, was there ... did he have….

Sean sighed. " Duke, I am your servant. I am of the Order of Knights who are refusing carnal knowledge of nuns, women, girls, children and the dead. I joined that lot when I divorced - she didn't want any kids; didn't want to share me either. I've been on my own now for a couple of years..." he paused, "It’s not easy meeting real people in my business; they're all a bit - you know - looking over your shoulder, asking, 'Is there something better over there?' " he trailed off. "What about you, though - you must have a train of admirers - dozens of 'em?"

Duke Viggo snorted, sniffed and slowly said, "Matey, where I've come from, there ain't no women, children or dead and the men are bastards - they take however they want, when they want. They take, grab, pain... Take, take...."

"Heyoop Duke, hey, slow down, love, slow it..." Sean's arms curved across Viggo's back, clenched and rigid. He petted him, stroked him like he would a distressed horse, unused to the noise and lights of an active set.

"Sorry, it’s OK, yes. I've been out only seven months now, and it’s been a long while in a different place. You are the first… just, just - do you mind if I say - soft, as in like a peach or a good avocado... just right - soft?"

Sean giggled. "What I am, lad Duke, is soft, soft as bloody butter, but not a peach or avocado - they've great hard stones in..." his voice disappearing, stopped. Yes, a stone, his stone he'd been carrying round for not just one or two years, but several… many, since… well, since...

"Say - what's soft when ripe and ready, but hasn't got a stone in it?" He suddenly hooted "Hah - a goosegog - a bloody gooseberry I am!"

Viggo slapped Sean's thigh. "Gooseberry bushes are for finding little boys under - in France its cabbages... are you a Cabbage Boy?" He ruffled Sean's hair. "Cabbages and Dukes and Kings and..."   
He sat up. 

"Hey, talking of cabbages, food! We've yet to eat properly. Have something like nutrition. Hang in there - two secs. It's only a quiche made by the saintly Marie-Magdalen, nice they are!" Two minutes later, one plate with only half a quiche, between two faces munching great mouthfuls. Viggo's eyes following the crumbs from Sean's mouth falling down that very lightly blonde-haired chest, one big crumb resting, so invitingly in his belly-button, and more falling still further...

Sean's mouth stopped working. "Eat - not drool - EAT!" Sir Geoffroy commanded his Duke, starting his own mastication again, the last piece of salmon and asparagus quiche disappearing as a long arm reached for the remaining three cold new potatoes that were vacuumed up like the quiche.

"Aaah - that's better - I was a bit empty for a couple of things; have had the one - now the other. I feel really good now. You OK, Duke V... you feel good too?"

Duke Viggo kissed Sean’s nose, his eyes, his eyes, greenygold, set 'just so.' He kissed the laugh-lines reaching up and down, kissed the two small brown marks on Sean's right cheekbone and said "Yeah - life's good. I feel free properly now."

"Yeah -feels like flying - just lying in the sky... but on second thoughts, it might be better in a bed, you could fall off a sofa or out of the sky, and it would be nice for you to tuck me in to you, and me to tuck you in to me - let's tuck each other in - eh, me old Duke?"

And as that other great storyteller said:

"AND SO TO BED!"

 

The Castle in the Air, Chapter Three.

 

Sean surfaced, slowly, rising up from the silver seas of sleep and lay stretched, boneless, uncreased. It was quiet, oh, so quiet. He was used to hearing noises, voices in corridors, the clink of china on trays carried past or to his door. 'Planes or cars outside, the hum of the air-conditioning.... Here there was nothing, no sound, just the whisper of colourless light creeping soft as... a drift of words floated. ‘Now here, I wake in dulcet morning peace, and hear the scratching splutter of the sparrows in the gutter, or just below the window, ancient, narrow, the sibilant assertion of our geese, and think of home-made bread, and marmalade, and butter.’ Here he could hear his breathing. He held it, but it kept on sighing softly, warm against the top of his arm...

 

"Viggo... mmm... Vigs. Hey Duke, you got any geese?” Did he have a voice? The Duke closed his lips, opened them, then the Duke's tongue roamed out and licked the drool from the big round shoulder, withdrew, and the lips kissed.

 

"Mmmmph. Nope, no geese... that's two or more isn't it?" A hand slid down,

"One goose," the hand dribbled its fingers around Sean's balls, "Two gooses equals geese - here and here!" The hand grabbed, then the Duke rolled over on top of the still slow-awakening Sean.

Grey eyes solemnly looked down. "You are beautiful asleep - do you know that? You snore like a pig eating slops. All licks, grunts, slurps and snorts."

Duke Viggo wriggled his hips. Sean woke up much more, his goosey-goosed bits leading the way. He knew now, he giggled, what that rhyme really meant, 'Wither shall I wander... ' Oh yes, here... His hand clutched at the Duke's muscled butt, less rounded than his own, but tautly erotic. 'In my Lord Duke's chamber... poking his fingers into the spaces down in between...

"Where's the sauce, Vigs, the sauce for the goose… eeh... sauc... ooaah ... aah..."

Viggo dropped his head, snorted a spray on Sean's chest, licked at it.

"There's a chap in Rouen with the name 'Frappesauce‘, he's a musician, makes fiddles and lutes. 'Frapper ' is to knock or beat... Hey, me old sauce boat, turn over..."

"No. Your turn - you turn over!"

"No... noo-oo-o... oooh…”

In the end they decided on a double-duet for four hands, the pillow two resting on temples, eyebrows, cheeks, while the freer mobile hands danced a duet for two hands, composed by need, played by desire.

Messy bellies needed to be washed. The shower was fortunately spacious, as Viggo explained, spluttering into the downpour, 

"The old lady had a wheelchair, and the shower was put in specially. She's down in the Foyer, the Old People's home here, with her old gossips, and is very happy there..."

They showered, with straying hands layering suds on chests and bellies, "Icing the cake." Viggo called it. "Saucing the gander..." spluttered Sean, his hands sliding like window-rubbers down from shoulder to nipples, tweak, tweak, sliding down... down... leaving a line of suds neatly defining left from right.

“What's me Right in French, Duke? I know my Left is 'A Gauche'..."

Viggo seemed to giggle such a lot, he kept giggling, and now he did it again.

"Your Right, that's Toot Droit…" then stopping. "No. That's a rotten trick. No, Sean. Your Left is just 'gauche'. ‘A Gauche' is TO the left. Tout droit is straight on. 'Droite' is just Right..."

"Oh, so my left hand - this one, this here...." grabbed at a pair of Duke's soapy balls, "this here is me 'gauche'... and this here... " turning the water tap on to full cold, "this is me 'DROITE!'" Sean leapt out of the shower, slamming the doors shut on a streaming, swearing Viggo.

Breakfast was with home-made bread. "A machine that does it all, chuck it all in and Bingo." No marmalade but a rich plum jam, and the butter from the farm just behind Little Orchard. "And their cheese..." moaned Viggo, "Oooh.. their cheeses..."

 

Sean investigated after, as Viggo insisted on washing up. "Saves on water" while Sean found the upstairs. A room running the whole length of the house, windows with shutters on both the south and north sides, with almost all of the end walls lined with more books. Old books, leatherbound, in several languages, three huge Bibles, a Folio Space. The wallpapering trestle near the north window held trays of brushes paints, crayons, pastels, sheets of paper, thick, thin, propped against canvases, pinned or stapled, prepared, and raw.

 

There was a bed against the wall behind the door, white, small, virginal. A crucifix above the headpillow seemed to be called for... a quiet peaceful bed for ending days. He wondered if Duke Viggo had been reading any of these books up here, or painting, it all looked recently used?

 

He moved across the landing to the other small door, and as his hand reached up to the latch, Viggo's voice rang up,

"Hey, the door on the right... Don't open it. It's Pandora's Box, and it'll getcha!" 

Geoffroy, being a superstitious Knight, withdrew his reaching hand, What? Who?... Pandora… oh no, he'd not open that door. Sean chuckled to himself and went back down the rough wooden treads.

"Whaddya mean, ‘Pandora's box’ in there?” he demanded.

"It's the old lady's attic room, everything that ever was in this house is in there. Furniture, trunks, papers, clothes, a sword, even a piano with candleholders on, but if you start in there, you'll never leave! I’ve taken her some photographs I saw, and an album, hoping she will be able to put names to most of them, so's someone, somewhere would love them, like family."

The Duc du Bellay chatted while he was stuffing a backpack with items like food. A pineapple. Waterbottles, the lube - again? Oh, more? He was a bit sore, but not uncomfortably so, in fact, not uncomfy at all, even welcoming the idea.

"Melud Duke. now what? Erh, what hast thou in mind for today's Entertainment, great lord?"

"Shurrup and get yourself out of me way, we're going to the Lake - it's a Lake Day."

So the huge door was pulled to, but not locked.

"It’s never locked here." Viggo said calmly, "we don't need locks here."

Sean thought, yes, he's had enough of locks. Closed, locked doors…

 

Across the grassy drove, lifiting the wire-slipped tall gate over the grass which captured its foot, the new-springing Old Wood beckoned. Small-leaved grass powdered their feet with miniature flowers, tiny white stars, Scarlet Pimpernels in orange, Birds-eye gazing with the blank eyes of just-born babes. 

The silence grew, but not - silence. Sean's other ear listened and heard a myriad sounds of clicks, crackles, whistles, flutings, pipings, tappings, rasping... the sounds of an Old Wood in early summer. He could see it was mixed deciduous, ancient, nothing planted here, just chestnut, beech, birch, many kinds of oak, a holly or two, bushy elder in the sun beside a clump of rowan - a hornbeam even. 

An Old Wood, old within time and the Duc du Bellay with his companion Sir Geoffroy de St Aubin, Knt. felt most at ease in its shelter. They wandered on, aware of each other, of this time, of that time...

"This is Gilbert's domain really, he rules here, and so do the ghosts of the castle. Come on. To The Old Castle..." He pulled Sean's hand from his neck where it had lain on their walk, with the hand that had rested thumb-hung in the loop of Sean's jeans, lying, feeling, caressing the taut round hardening-softening muscles of Sean's buttocks as he walked.

Scampering up the slope, he dashed to the right, Sean stumbling, with unsure feet, laughing breathlessly at the wild urgent 'loopiness' that caught him up, led him to be so... carefree, happy to simply be.

The Old Castle, broken, strong, carved, solid, fragile against the puffpowdered sky, gazing out, guarding... it stood. The gap in the trees framed the stones, the edge of hillside, the space beyond... Viggo paused.

"She's an old faded beauty that one. I loved her then and I love her now." Softly.

Geoffroy-Sean stepped over the broken stones, his eyes asking the Duke for permission to mount, to climb, to stare westwards, searching for ' the Enemy'. The Duke nodded.

"Just not too high, the top ones are more than a little loose!" 

Geoffroy-Sean pulled himself up, one foot high on a big square block, his left hand on his sword hilt. Richard Sharpe looked around for the 'Crapauds', his Chosen Men resting in the shade, baiting their rations; bread, cheese, a stolen apple or two... They were all there, Hagman, Harris,Tongue, Perkins, Cooper - his Chosen Men... 

Richard grinned to himself, he had another Chosen Man to add, young Dominic. He tightened his sash on his waist, 'Young Dominic, Perkins' little brother - and eey-oop... where's Pat? Oh, he'll be on down by the Lake then, making camp....' Sean's eyes were unfocussed, yet searching the fields, the coverts, for the French Troopers Me new General - me Commander. It isn't 'Nosey' now, it’s... he laughed, the laugh of a child, free and happy He's a French Duke - a bloody Frenchie he is... and he turned, almost falling from his Napoleonic perch to salute his new love/enemy the Duc...

He faltered… Geoffroy-Richard-Sean saw Viggo. His Viggo. A slow-smiling, long, lean, brown floppy-haired gentle, honest human - a sort to ease, to hold, to comfort, and for comfort, for ease and for holding...

"Oh Viggo..." he whispered, Oh Viggo... Vigs... his body whispered. Richard clasped his sword-hilt, experienced from the smack of an uncontrolled scabbard swiping at his back, and he leapt. He sprang, green-sheathed legs and booted feet sure and agile - and tumbled, down on one knee, both hands plunged into leaves and grass.

"Bloody Hell!” Bloody Richard - oh hell, it must be the OLD Richard now… not Sgt Sharpe, bloody Old Colonel retired… as he felt his left knee crack. At least that was a real war-wound from fighting in - what? Ah, ‘Black Death.’ Sod that. All that cold bloody water.

Struggling up, he snorted. "Should think a bit now, it’s not like I'm thirty-five any more." Viggo just leant, an elbow crooked against the wall, twirling a bluebell in his fingers, plaiting it in his hair, waiting, just waiting...

Geo… Rich… Sean himself stalked, favouring his knee a little, until he stood face to face, gold eye to grey eye, then kissed. Ah... ah... hands, arms rounded backs, held, breathed. Bluebell-forgotten hands pushed Sean’s belly back, undid fastenings, and pulled, down. Held flesh, pulling in. Sean’s eagerness rubbed against worn denim, Viggo's cutoffs giving smooth but rough friction. Off with those. The bluebell hands worked again, two smooth skins felt, moved, two wanting, needing extensions held - one hand - two hands. Sean's hand held Viggo's as it moved, two bodies, one desire… all became one.

Sean's head dropped to his Duke's shoulder and panted there.

He rubbed, or tried to rub, his right leg against the other, his forgotten jeans nearly having him down again. Viggo bent and lifted Sean's clothing, his hair brushing softly on Sean's soft cock and thigh, as he pulled up his own pants. He smirked, then sniggered and,

"That's a fine nettlebed you're standing in..." Indicating a froth of green fronds tapping against the back of Sean's thighs. Sean yelped.

"It’s bloody nettles, where'd they spring from?" and pulled his jeans up very quickly.

Geoffroy, Richard, Sean, Robert, Duc du Bellay, and Viggo crowded down the slope to the Lake. Bloody Pat'd better have the fire lit, Richard whispered in the back of Sean's mind. They emerged on to a grassy smooth, sheep-nibbled bank, the old wooden jetty leading to the silvered sparkling brown-blue water.

"It'll be cold this time of year, don't know if I'll dare..." as Viggo took off his few clothes. " I'm sunning meself, I hate being white. Ugh, look like a slug, that's 'inside' colour!" and he flowed, melted, to the grass. 

Sean reflected the last time he'd seen anyone 'flow' like that was the dying Swan in Swan Lake, those jointless arms, the boneless stretched legs, the bowed dying head…

Viggo patted the grass. "C'mon - you're gawking again." Sean grinned, flinging off his clothes, but hanging them on a branch, remembering creepies finding their way into his uniform in Turkey, and joined the Duke on the warm grass.

Sleep found them again. It crept soothing on their unaware minds, their relaxed, happy bodies, stroked with sunwarmth, the lap of lakewater. Silence.

 

"Viggo - I'll burn if I stay out here any more, I'm having to move.” Sean struggled to the shade under his hanging pants.

"Yep, let's eat, feed that inner man - this one, we've fed the other." he giggled softly. So time lost itself, unaware, as they picked, munched, scrunched lettuce and pineapple, sucked tomatoes, the wine bottle shared. Cleaning tooth-stuck crust with his finger That's good pork pie stuff, Sean thought, pretty tasty.

Wine-lulled, he dared…

"Viggo - what were you in for? It wasn't bad?"

A long wait. Viggo reached for the wine again, picked at a lettuce leaf. 

"Bad - what's bad? I paid - enough, but I never will pay all of it. What is bad?"

"Bad is 'evil' Vigs, really dark evil-bad… not anger… not jealousy, not just rage, though that can sometimes be a bit borderline..." Sean's voice rose. "Bad is sick, Viggo, sick - That is bad. You're not like that! Not 'sick' mad, not 'sick dangerous'. You aren't - you aren't!" Sean’s voice rose, vehement with denial.

"Oh no, not evil - just stupid." Viggo poured some wine, "re-active hurt. I'd taken too much. He hurt me. My mind, my soul..." he held the glass to the sun, squinted at the ruby shine, "My body, he took when he felt like it..." He sighed, scratched his knee, poked a finger into the soil. "It hurt, you see. It was tearing me into pièces, to make him know. I didn't know how to make him realize how much I lov...correction, how much I wanted to love him."

Sean quietly asked, "What did you do, Vigs love, you hit him?"

Viggo grunted, shrugged "Did more'n that. I'd tied him up, you see, he liked that, he enjoyed being 'reduced'. For a bullying mind like he had, it was strange." His fingers played with a string of grass, "He had a word, a safeword, but he hated it. Why in hell he had a safeword he hated... hated to use, to say…" 

Sean needed to know. He let out his breath, leant slightly towards Viggo. "What word, Viggo, what word, it must have been...important? What was it?"

"It was 'brother'. 'My brother' actually, two words. ‘My brother.’" His voice was stronger now, taking hold of memory. "He hated his elder brother, the one who had died when he was young, I think, when he was about ten or eleven. When he was old enough to understand death, and to feel its exotic pain." Viggo shifted, changed to the other elbow, his head nearer Sean's shoulder.

"We'd been drinking, had a joint or two. I must have blacked out, too bloody drunk. I know I woke being very sick all over the floor. He... he was... purple. I grabbed the sharpest knife I could and cut his gag. His hands were white - no blood in them. He fell on to me, all floppy, heavy. I tried to lift him, he was convulsing… and he didn't feel the knife. I'd forgotten, honestly, forgotten it was still in my hand. He was heaving around, throwing himself up and down, the knife had cut him, his shoulder, and on his back. I tried to lift him away and he... he leant on it… he actually pushed himself ON to the knife... I swear. He LEANT... pushed..." Viggo looked sick, his face wasn't Viggo's, nor the gentle Duc du Bellay's. It was strapped, stretched, gaunt. He looked up, 

"Sean, honestly, I... I... should have... should have, but I didn't. I... couldn't… I wanted... So I left the knife in him, cutting in him..." His voice, soft always, had now faded to the faintest of breaths.

"He died in the ambulance. Loss of blood, they said. He’d gone almost white - not that awful purple he'd been."

There was a long, heavy pause. Birds sang, but were not heard.

"It was classed as second degree murder, with extenuating circumstances as most of them were unconfirmed. I was in no state to deny, confirm or confess anything. Cold turkey is likely to make anyone unable to be even human at times, and I was just lost in the hatefulness of it all." 

He looked up through the branches, past the leaves, "I was lost, but in a way, found, too, Totally lost to guilt, but I had at least found my honesty again. I had wanted him to go, to die, but I didn't want to 'do ' it. It had to 'happen'. And it did..." he swallowed, licked his top lip. "Disgustingly, filthily, in godawful circumstances..." he swallowed again, fighting nausea, looking up through the trees again. "I was banged up for eleven years. I'm forty-nine now, be fifty this year. I had three years off for 'good behaviour'. Huh! That means being buggered by any officer who felt like it. It’s 'No complaints now! Boy!' That's being on good behaviour...."

Sean held perfectly still, visualising, tasting the scene. It wasn't wardrobe blood but warm, sticky, pumping, real blood. A body heavy, grunting, flailing, the stench of faeces, vomit, drugs. He was shocked, frightened at the intensity - the inevitablity of it all. Viggo looked sideways, and up, his eyes screwed into a question.

Sean took a breath, deep. He seemed to have stopped breathing hours ago. His face remained smooth, unmoved, but his hand (not the ‘a gauche’ said his idiotic brain) shook, trembled, to run a forefinger down a straight slim nose, to touch a scar on that top lip under the straight slim nose. He reached out, pulled, held, his friend, his love, himself, close. 

He was the injured now, he felt his pain, his horror. That blood... ‘and on thy blade-dudgeon gouts of blood.…’ Macbeth heard a woman's voice wail... ‘who'd have thought… so MUCH blood in him?’ He curled himself round, legs, arms, hands, wrapped close, held close and tight, himself and his other self.

Neither said any more, just stayed while the lake water lapped an Elieson, a Lament, the sun bowed to the west ‘Benedictus, benedictus, amen’ to the dusk..

 

\----------ooOoo----------

 

Sean left early at half past four, he was on call at eight. He stepped softly into the dew on the path, and he didn't look back at a sheet-wrapped figure in the dark doorway. He didn't need to, because he would be back, tonight, and tomorrow. ‘tomorrow and tomorrow would creep in petty pace…’ He would always be here, With, in, within my Prison, giving myself to his enclosing heart, locked into his love, my Duc du Bellay....

Geoffroy de St Aubin donned his woollen hose, adjusting his tired, slightly sore genitals to lie comfortably, and rose, bearded, costumed and alive. To live his 'another' life as a whole man too.

A found man, but... a Prisoner.

Finis.


End file.
